The "Wardrobe Incident," as it quickly became known within the hushed, horrified corridors of the Royal Palace and the increasingly exasperated headquarters of Shadow Garden, was a masterpiece of unintentional chaos. Shadow, Alpha, and a hastily assembled team (mostly Epsilon, for her slime-based containment abilities, and Delta, because she thought "griffin wrangling" sounded fun) arrived at the Royal Gardens to a scene of picturesque devastation.
The ancient, ornate archway leading to the Queen's cherished rose garden was now a pile of beautifully carved rubble. Prize-winning roses, cultivated for generations, lay crushed and scattered. Several Royal Guardsmen were attempting, with a distinct lack of success, to shoo away a flock of screeching, agitated griffins that were dive-bombing a massive, antique wardrobe currently being used as a makeshift perch by Mr. Fluffles. Saitama stood beside the wardrobe, looking mildly perplexed, while Genos was attempting to calculate the optimal trajectory to safely neutralize the griffins without damaging the remaining, albeit terrified, royal shrubbery.
"Uh, hey, robe guy," Saitama said, spotting Shadow. "These big bird-cat things are really noisy. And they keep trying to steal Mr. Fluffles's new hat." (Mr. Fluffles was indeed sporting a tiny, ill-fitting crown apparently "borrowed" from a nearby statue).
Shadow surveyed the scene, his expression unreadable beneath his hood, though Alpha could almost feel the waves of profound, soul-deep weariness emanating from him. This, Cid thought, his internal monologue a low, mournful keen, is my life now. Not battling ancient evils or unraveling shadowy conspiracies. No. I am managing the fallout of a bald man's furniture-moving escapades and his bunny's kleptomania.
"Saitama-dono," Shadow began, his voice impressively calm given the circumstances, "it appears your… enthusiasm for interior decorating has led to certain… unforeseen structural and diplomatic complications."
"Yeah, sorry about the arch thingy," Saitama said, scratching his head. "It was lower than I thought. And this wardrobe is surprisingly top-heavy."
One of the griffins, a particularly large and ornery specimen with plumage the color of molten gold, let out a piercing shriek and swooped low, its talons outstretched towards Mr. Fluffles.
Before anyone could react – before Genos could activate his cannons, before Delta could leap with a joyous howl, before Epsilon could deploy a slime net – Saitama simply… glared at it.
It wasn't an angry glare. It wasn't a menacing glare. It was just… a flat, bored, "don't-even-think-about-it" look.
The golden griffin, a majestic creature of myth and royal emblem, froze mid-swoop. Its wings faltered. It let out a confused, pathetic squawk, then abruptly veered off, nearly colliding with a nearby fountain before flapping away in a state of clear bewilderment, followed by the rest of its flock, who seemed to collectively decide that this particular patch of garden was suddenly far less appealing.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant, retreating screeches of the griffins and the soft rustle of leaves. The Royal Guardsmen stared, their jaws agape.
Alpha turned to Shadow, her eyebrow arched. "It seems Saitama-dono's… deterrent effect… extends to royal avians as well."
Shadow just sighed, a sound like wind whistling through a forgotten tomb. He scared off a flock of trained royal war-griffins with a bored look. Because they were annoying him. My power is the carefully cultivated fear of the unknown, the dread of the unseen. His power is apparently the ability to make even mythical beasts nope out of a confrontation through sheer, unadulterated apathy. There's no competing with that.
The subsequent "diplomatic envoy" to King Midgar was an exercise in strained politeness and copious, groveling apologies (mostly from Chancellor Olba, on behalf of the entire kingdom, for the "unfortunate incident involving the esteemed Sir Saitama's noble attempt at… personal effects relocation"). Shadow, with his usual enigmatic pronouncements, managed to spin the event as an "unforeseen test of the Royal Garden's resilience against unexpected kinetic forces" and a "demonstration of Saitama-dono's profound, if unconventional, understanding of faunal de-escalation."
The King, looking even more tired and anemic than before, simply nodded, accepted the apologies, and quietly ordered a tripling of the guard around any and all royal property whenever Saitama was within a five-mile radius. He also made a mental note to invest heavily in fast-growing, easily replaceable shrubbery.
Seraphina, the newly recruited (and still emotionally fragile) Night Blade, witnessed the entire griffin-wardrobe fiasco from a discreet distance, escorted by Beta. Her expression was one of profound, almost spiritual confusion. She had dedicated her life to mastering the deadly arts, to becoming a silent instrument of the Master's will. And here was a man who could pacify mythical beasts with a glance, who treated ancient evils like minor inconveniences, and whose primary concern seemed to be the structural integrity of his bunny's hat collection. Her understanding of "power" was undergoing a radical, and deeply unsettling, revision.
With the immediate crisis of the rogue wardrobe averted (it was eventually transported to Saitama's quarters via a very nervous team of Royal movers, under the strict supervision of Genos and several layers of protective padding), Shadow Garden returned to its primary mission: uncovering the secrets of the Cult of Diablos and the Thirteen Night Blades.
Seraphina, once she had somewhat recovered from her art-induced breakdown and the subsequent griffin spectacle, proved to be a surprisingly cooperative, if melancholic, source of information. She detailed the strict training regimens, the fanatical indoctrination, and the terrifying glimpses of the "Master's" power she had witnessed. She knew the general areas of operation for a few of the other Night Blades, though specific identities and locations remained elusive.
"They are… shadows, like me," she explained to Shadow and Alpha in a hushed debriefing session. "Masters of disguise, infiltration, and their own unique, terrifying arts. One, known only as 'Puppet Master Jervois,' is said to control entire networks through ensorcelled marionettes. Another, 'Nocturne the Soul-Drinker,' drains the very life force of his victims, leaving behind desiccated husks. And then there is… 'Crimson Count Valerius,' a noble of ancient lineage from a neighboring kingdom, rumored to have made a pact for eternal youth and unspeakable power…"
Shadow listened intently, his mind already weaving these new threads into his grand, internal narrative. Puppet masters, soul-drinkers, immortal vampire counts! Excellent! Classic archetypes! Each one will require a different approach, a different dramatic confrontation! This is the escalation I've been waiting for!
While Shadow plotted and Seraphina confessed, Saitama and Genos found themselves with an unusual amount of downtime. Midgar, still recovering, was relatively quiet in terms of monster attacks or overt Cult activity, possibly due to the lingering "Saitama effect."
Genos used this time to meticulously upgrade his systems, incorporating data from their encounters in this new world. He also began a detailed study of Midgar's arcane theories, trying to reconcile them with the scientific principles of his own world, and, more importantly, to find some theoretical framework that could even begin to explain Saitama's abilities. He was, predictably, failing on the last point.
Saitama, on the other hand, was… bored. He'd bought his jerky, his t-shirt, and Mr. Fluffles now had a dedicated (if slightly scraped) wardrobe for his growing collection of "borrowed" headwear. The initial novelty of being in a new dimension was wearing off, replaced by the familiar, soul-crushing ennui that only truly overwhelming power could bring.
He tried to find strong opponents. He'd asked Delta to point out the "toughest guys in town." Delta had excitedly led him to the Royal Knights' training grounds. Saitama had then, with a single, very casual punch (aimed at a training dummy, which had then disintegrated and sent a shockwave that knocked over half the knights), inadvertently demoralized the entire knightly order and caused several promising young squires to rethink their career choices.
He tried to find interesting hobbies. He'd attempted to learn Midgarian chess, but had gotten frustrated when the pieces didn't explode when captured. He'd tried fishing in the royal moat, but had accidentally pulled out a legendary, car-sized catfish that had apparently been terrorizing the local duck population for decades, an act which earned him both the gratitude of the ducks and another stern talking-to from Chancellor Olba about "respecting designated aquatic wildlife sanctuaries."
One afternoon, Shadow, deep in thought in his brooding-chamber (formerly the townhouse's library), heard a rhythmic thump… thump… thump… coming from the courtyard. He looked out the window.
There, in the middle of the courtyard, Saitama was… skipping rope. With a length of incredibly thick, anchor-like chain he'd apparently "found" near the city docks. Each "skip" caused the ground to tremble slightly and sent small pebbles flying. Mr. Fluffles was sitting nearby, munching on a carrot, seemingly unperturbed.
Shadow just stared. The man who could shatter dimensions with a punch, the being who made ancient evils flee in terror, was skipping rope with a ship's anchor chain. Because he was bored.
A strange, unfamiliar emotion welled up within Cid Kagenou. It wasn't frustration. It wasn't despair. It was… something akin to… pity? No, not pity. It was more like… a bizarre, almost sympathetic understanding of the crushing, soul-destroying boredom that must come with truly absolute, unchallenged power.
He's like me, Cid thought, a shocking realization dawning. Not in power, obviously. But in this… this yearning for something more. I yearn for the perfect stage, the ultimate shadowy drama. He yearns for… a decent fight. A challenge. Something to break the monotony of effortless victory.
It was a profoundly uncomfortable thought. It humanized Saitama in a way that his godlike power never could. And it made Cid's own elaborate, chuunibyou-fueled persona feel… a little silly in comparison. Saitama wasn't trying to be anything. He just was.
Shadow turned away from the window, a new, contemplative expression on his unseen face. He picked up a piece of charcoal and a blank sheet of parchment. He usually used these for drafting intricate (and largely imaginary) battle plans or cryptic pronouncements.
But this time, he began to sketch.
He sketched the Royal Gardens, focusing on the shattered archway and the terrified-looking roses. He sketched the golden griffin, its eyes wide with bewildered fear. He sketched the massive wardrobe, with Mr. Fluffles perched законодательно on top, wearing its tiny, stolen crown.
And then, he began to sketch Saitama. Not in a dynamic, heroic pose. But just… standing there, looking vaguely bored, with the anchor chain at his feet. He focused on the utter lack of pretense, the quiet, almost tragic powerlessness that came with being all-powerful.
Alpha, entering the room silently to deliver a report, paused in the doorway, her eyes widening slightly as she saw what her Lord Shadow was doing. He, the master of darkness, the orchestrator of shadows, was… drawing. Doodling, almost. And his subject was the very man who had inadvertently turned his world, and his narratives, upside down.
She didn't say anything. She just watched for a moment, a complex, unreadable expression on her face. Then, she quietly retreated, leaving her Lord to his unexpected, and surprisingly poignant, new pastime.
The hunt for the Night Blades would continue. The mystery of the "Master" would deepen. But in a quiet courtyard in Midgar, an Eminence in Shadow, faced with the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of his new reality, had found a new, and perhaps more honest, way to process it all. Not through grand pronouncements or shadowy manipulations, but through the simple, unexpected act of putting charcoal to parchment, trying to capture the essence of a hero who was too strong, too bored, and too wonderfully, terrifyingly real. The lines between drama and comedy, between mastermind and reluctant observer, were becoming increasingly, and fascinatingly, blurred.